


the spark and the sound

by flimsy



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic At The Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-13
Updated: 2012-04-13
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:11:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flimsy/pseuds/flimsy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spencer is up against the bus, hands splayed out against the black paint, his face is turned away, hair in his eyes, and the tech guy’s hands are on his waist, sliding up, higher, pushing Spencer’s pale pink T-shirt away to give way to pale, pale skin. Jon feels his fingers itch, feels wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the spark and the sound

Jon meets Spencer for the first time at Pete’s house, at a party to celebrate the release of Panic’s first album. It’s kind of a small party, Decaydance and Fueled by Ramen people only, and Jon isn’t even quite sure how he ended up here. As for the band, there’s this sourly glowering boy, who sticks to the singer, and Ryan Ross, whose name Jon knows because William talked about him, and then there’s this slightly awkward, bitchy/shy looking kid, who Jon figures is the drummer. 

He gets really drunk with Bill and Tom and when he wakes the next morning, he’s all forgotten about Panic! at the Disco. He doesn’t meet them again until months later when he joins The Academy Is… on tour in England and then he doesn’t even recognize Spencer as the self-conscious boy from September until Brendon, coming off the plane at the airport in London, drapes himself all over him.

Jon tilts his head to the side, shifts his duffel bag, and says to Tom, “That’s the drummer? Smith?” 

“Huh, yeah,” Tom says, surprised. “Grew up, didn’t he?” 

Jon’s not sure that’s the right expression – Spencer hasn’t physically grown, not really – maybe lost some of his baby fat – it’s something different. There’s something about the tilt of his hips now, the sharpness of his eyes that Jon surely would have remembered if it had been there the first time they met. 

Jon waits for the rest of the crew to emerge from the plane; in step with Ryan, Brendon padding after them, Spencer struts past them in his fifty dollar sneakers and Forever21 jeans as if he were wearing Armani. There’s a slice of his skin showing where his T-shirt is riding up; Jon frowns after him until William stumbles from the plane, all touchy and attention grabbing, and drags them both off towards the baggage claim area. 

 

*

 

They have two buses and two trailers for their equipment, and Panic and their crew have their own bus. The Academy bus is a little bigger, so it all works out just fine. Jon takes the bunk over Tom’s, and when he wakes the next day the bus is somewhere in the British tundra.

He stumbles from his bunk, sweats and threadbare T-shirt and all to the lounge and finds both bands curled up on the sofa. Ross and William are shooting each other dead in Halo 2 and Spencer is perched on the arm of the sofa, back curving for balance. The Butcher, eyes fixed intently on the screen, has one hand on Spencer’s thigh, fingers curling, and Spencer’s fingers are flicking over the keyboard of his Sidekick with lightning speed. 

Jon blinks and then stumbles past Spencer, brushing his leg, apologizing, and falling into the tiny free space on the couch next to Tom. 

“It’s an invasion,” Tom says at Jon’s look, loudly enough for everyone to hear. 

“We are awesome, you totally love it,” Brendon says; he’s squished between Siska and one of William’s friends. 

“Fresh meat,” William says, firing at Ryan’s guy on screen. 

Spencer makes a dismissive noise, Sidekick clicking shut. He turns and glances at them with his brows raised, at Tom, look grazing Jon, before turning to William, who’s craning his neck to look at him. 

“I like it when you’re like that, baby,” William says and makes a kissy face. 

Spencer’s posture shifts as he lowers his Sidekick. “And I like your _mom_.” 

The Butcher hollers, and Jon can see his grip on Spencer’s thigh tightening; Spencer leans into him a little, stuffing his phone into his pocket, arms curving around himself. 

“So, where’s your bassist?” Jon asks after a moment, grabbing somebody’s coffee cup from the table. Ross’s shoulder’s suddenly hunch at the question, but he stays quiet. Jon feels like he just stepped on a landmine. 

“Our bassist,” Brendon says, muffled from between somebody and the sofa but doesn’t continue. 

“Brent is,” Spence starts, and Jon watches him shift again, suddenly cold and resilient. “Not feeling well,” he continues, and Jon swallows as Spence gives him a hard long look. Jon stares back, feels his skin prickle, until Brendon starts singing Aladdin very loudly and he has to join in, of course. 

 

*

 

They’re five days into the UK tour, and Jon can’t stop watching Spencer. It’s not like. It’s not like he’s taking pictures, because that would be like admitting to something, _anything_ , but Jon remembers this bitchy, slightly awkward kid from Pete’s party, a boy who he probably wouldn’t even remember had Pete no insisted on them meeting properly, and now. Now Jon can’t help but stare.

Backstage there is always someone touching Spencer: their light-guy’s finger hooked into Spencer’s belt loop; Ryan pressed against him tightly right before their set; the Butcher wrapped around him, chin on his shoulder, watching him type on his Sidekick; Brendon, folded around him like a monkey. 

He drums like a rocket and lets their sound guy lick the sweat off his neck after the show, laughing and pushing him away before heading to the showers. Jon stares after him, feeling stupid. 

“So, dude,” Tom says on the sixth day, after taking a hit from the joint and passing it on to Jon. “What’s up with Spencer Smith?” 

“Nothing,” Jon says, blowing smoke from his nose. Tom gives him a look and Jon shrugs. A round of tequila shots and a joint later, Jon rubs his nose, watching as Spencer and Ryan climb on the bus, curling up on the couch next to William. 

Jon swallows tightly at the sight of the curve of Spencer’s belly. He and Ryan are arguing over movie selection with William and he’s gesturing with his Sidekick, fingers curling around it; for a ridiculous moment Jon thinks if he ever were to join a silly little gaymo band like Panic! it’d be for Spencer fucking Smith. Or for fucking Spencer Smith. 

“So right,” Jon says, turning to face Tom, who’s lighting another joint. “Maybe I kind of wanna bone an underage Pussycat Dolls-hoodie wearing drummer. Kinda badly.” 

Tom tilts a brow, squeezing his eyes shut as he sucks on the joint before exhaling. “Spencer?” 

Jon shoots Spence another look and takes the joint from Tom’s hands. “Yeah.” 

“Even as a completely heterosexual dude, I’d say he’s pretty hot,” Tom says, grinning, (“I am completely heterosexual,” Jon interjects), and then continues. “But I heard he’s not doing it with anyone.”

“You’re kidding.” Jon looks at Spencer again, Ryan’s fingers on his belly and William’s mouth against his neck. 

“Dude,” Tom says, shrugging. “Get drunk-“

“Am drunk,” Jon says. 

“ _Drunker_.” Tom grins. “Get _drunker_ , go into town and find a chick. A real one.” 

Jon does that. He gets so drunk he loses his chick on the way back to the parking lot, though – pretty, pretty girl, long legs, but all Jon can think of is freckly skin and blue eyes – and when he stumbles onto the Academy bus again, Spencer is in the armchair with Tom, half on his lap, and Tom is mouthing against his neck, hands curled over his belly, stroking lightly. Spencer is flushed, cheeks red, laughing, and Tom’s got that look on his face that Jon has seen a thousand times before, but usually directed at pretty blondes. 

“What—“ Jon starts, stumbles over to Tom and drags him up. Tom presses an _I’ll be back_ , against Spencer’s skin, audible even to Jon, before Jon pulls him outside. 

“What are you doing?” Jon staggers and leans against the bus, vision swimming from Whisky and THC. 

“Dude, it’s so not my fault.” Tom grins, lips curving, as he shakes a cigarette from his half empty pack. “He just.” 

“Yeah, I know, right,” Jon laughs and takes the cigarette from Tom’s hands to take a long deliberate drag. “But dude, I totally saw him first, so back off.” 

Tom laughs, rolls his eyes at him; they stumble back inside but by the time they manage to climb over countless legs and Playstation controllers, Spencer and Ryan have left for their own bus. 

 

*

 

It’s three minutes before the Panic! set, and Jon is putting away Tom’s guitar after restringing it. He secures the guitar and when he looks up again, Spencer is waiting by the door leading backstage, on his tiptoes, arms folded gingerly. 

“Hey, Smith,” Jon says, grinning, following the soft line of Spencer’s hips with his eyes, snapping back to his face when Spencer speaks. 

“You,” he starts, and his tone is different, tentative, “you play bass, right?” 

“Yeah,” Jon says, scratches his neck. “Yeah, I do.”

Spencer shifts a little, bites his lip and Jon is pretty sure that he’s going to say yes to whatever Spence is going to ask him.

 

*

 

Jon’s got these mad ideas of catching Spencer after the show, pressing him against the wall and pushing his T-shirt up until all that’s under his fingers is soft, white skin; he jerks off to this thought night after night, ignoring Tom’s mocking tone in the morning. 

Spencer never touches him. He gives Jon smiles – like sunshine and puppies and motherfucking butterflies – but then curls against Ryan’s side and sits behind the Butcher at soundcheck. 

By the time the tour ends, Jon is no longer convinced of his heterosexuality. He goes home to Chicago with Tom and sleeps for like a week at his mom’s house. Tom keeps sending him silly little Spencer-related texts and Jon ignores them stubbornly. He spends a week eating his mom’s food and playing with Dylan, and on the 11th, William Beckett calls his mom and asks why he’s not picking up his phone, because dude, Pete fucking Wentz has important business to talk about. 

Jon rolls out of bed and checks his phone – there’s a call yes, from a number Jon doesn’t know, and he presses _redial_. 

“Yo,” Pete says. 

“Hi,” Jon says. “You got a new number?” He blinks sleepily and lets Dylan curl around his hand. 

“Yeah, somehow it leaked.” Jon can virtually hear Pete’s shrug.

“What’s up?” Jon says, squinting at the time. 

“So Jon, I gotta ask you something,” Pete starts and Jon frowns because usually Pete calling and wanting to ask you something without preamble means silly photoshoots or favors. “William told me you told Tom you want to play with Panic? ‘Cause here’s your chance, man.” 

“What?” Jon says, confused. He vaguely remembers talking to Tom about how much he wants to fuck Spencer (on various occasions), but. Yeah, Tom probably knows him too well. 

He flies out to Vegas the next day, listening to the Panic! album on repeat, tapping out basslines on his armrest. It’s not like he needs refreshing; he’s heard them play their set every evening for over a week, has played with them once, too, eyes and ears fixed on the steady, driving rhythm of Spencer’s drums. 

Spencer picks him up at the airport in an old purple minivan. His hair is mussed and his hoodie is about two sizes too big. Jon puts his duffel bag and bass on the backseat before getting into the passenger’s seat. 

“Hey,” Spence says, fastening his seatbelt. He looks tired. Jon kind of wants to reach over and tuck his hair behind his ear, but instead folds his hands in his lap. “Thanks for coming on such short notice,” Spence continues. “We had to. Brent,” he finishes, shrugging, smiling at Jon before fixing his eyes on the street again. 

“Hey man, no problem. I have nothing to do anyway,” Jon says. A comfortable silence settles between them for a few moments. Vegas, Jon notices, is not only casinos. It looks pretty normal. He fishes for his camera and takes a shot of the skyline in the distance. 

“You’re staying at my place,” Spence starts after two, three minutes. “If that’s ok? I thought maybe a hotel room for this short a stay would be a waste?”

Jon looks at his hands for a moment, at Spencer’s jeans-clothed thigh, and nods. “Yeah, sure. If it’s no bother for your family?” 

Spence laughs. “No, no, my mom loves guests.” He turns to smile at Jon again. “And I’d love to have you over, too.” There is something in his smile, something vague, restless, that confuses Jon because he’s gotten so used to confident and self-assured Spencer. 

 

*

 

They rehearse for a day, Spence vanishing to make phone calls from time to time; and then, way too early in the morning, they play the radio concert. Jon doesn’t mess up and Ryan hugs him afterwards, but Spencer is unusually quiet. 

Jon sits in the visitor room while they’re being interviewed; he waits, watches their mouths move soundlessly, Spencer’s expressive gesturing, his smiles, controlled and at probably at exactly the right moments. He’s sitting closer to Ryan than to Brendon, legs crossed, pink sneakers swinging idly in rhythm with his gesturing hands. Jon swallows and imagines his voice, articulate and intonated, curling around long, complicated words, drawing them out, rhythm and sound, harmonic. 

Jon drives home with Spencer, in the backseat, Ryan in the passenger seat. The two talk quietly, laughing occasionally, and Jon feels his heart clench a little. 

Brendon comes over later that night and they curl up in front of the TV, watching Golden Girls reruns. Jon gets up, untangles from Brendon’s arms or legs, and rummages in his backpack until he finds the cellophane bag of weed the sound guy at the radio station slipped him after the show. 

Brendon curls against him expectantly when he starts lighting up, and they share for a few hits, switching, blowing smoke from their noses. Brendon gets giggly after the third hit, and Jon grins at him. Brendon’s teeth are suddenly very white, his eyes dark and wet and Jon reaches out to make sure his freckles aren’t about to fall off his fucking face. Brendon laughs again, whether at Jon’s fingers on his face or the TV, Jon cannot determine, but out of the corner of his eyes, before he takes another hit, he can see Ryan pull up Spencer by his hand, literally drag him up, it’s all like slow motion maybe? Then they’re stumbling to the back of the room, Ryan’s arm curling around Spencer’s waist, holding him close, their heads tilted together, Spencer’s lips widening in a secretive smile at whatever Ryan last said. 

Jon’s heart clenches again, at the tilt of Spencer’s hips towards Ryan, or maybe the ease with which they stumble towards the bed together. 

Jon passes the joint back to Brendon, takes it again, sucks in smoke until his vision goes funny and the TV is swimming, flickering, bright dark bright dark dark color bright; there’s hushed voices from behind, Jon can hear them even over Brendon’s constant commentary, quiet laughter and the rustle of fabric, the clatter of shoes against hardwood floor. He closes his eyes, swallows dryly, mouth ashen, thinks of Spencer’s skin under his fingers, soft and pale. 

 

*

 

“Let’s make music, Jon,” Ryan says the next day with his head hanging over the side of Spencer blue couch and his ridiculously long legs over the backrest. His face is slowly but steadily getting very red, and Jon watches him curiously before replying. 

“Sure, just give me a guitar and a campfire and a bottle of Johnny and we’re set.” He grins and shoves another Cheeto into his mouth. 

“No,” Ryan says, sitting up, ruffling his own hair until it’s a deliberate mess rather than just a mess again. “No, I mean, _together_.” 

 

*

 

When Spencer calls Brent, Jon is asleep. He wakes to Brendon poking his side, eyes wide, whispering his name quietly. From the bathroom adjoining Spencer’s room, he can hear Spencer’s hushed voice; the door is not completely closed and there’s a thin stripe of light falling into the room. Jon can see Spencer’s feet, crossed at the ankles as if he’s leaning against the sink. He sounds calm; no words, just melody. 

Brendon presses against him as if he’s afraid, and Jon waits, and then shifts as silently as possible and pulls his camera from his bag to take a picture. The sound of the shutter clicks loudly, but Spencer doesn’t change positions or close the door or stop talking. Jon closes the lens again and crawls back onto the couch to curl under the sheets, waiting. 

Some time later, Jon can’t tell if it’s just a few minutes or longer, maybe hours, Spencer sighs audibly and finally presses the door shut with a click. Jon swallows, feeling uneasy. 

 

*

 

“Do you want to go on tour?” Ryan starts, arm curled around Spencer’s middle in an angle that can’t be comfortable, not in that armchair. Ryan’s bangs are touching Spencer’s cheek, a soft brush of hair, but Spencer is not pulling away or even moving. 

“With us,” Spencer adds with hardly any pause. Jon exhales, turns for Brendon desperately, because this feels like interrogation. Judgment Day. 

“What about your old guitar tech?” Jon asks then, deliberately, licking his lips, weighing reaction for reaction, because he knows, he does know, but he’s not sure he wants to be the one to say it out loud. 

“No,” Spencer says; his voice has dropped, it’s smooth and soft, dangerous almost; he’s staring Jon down, but all Jon can see are the freckles spreading out over his nose and cheeks, tiny tiny flecks of brown and orange on Spencer’s papermoon skin. “No,” Spencer repeats. “As our bassist.” 

“And Brent?” Jon asks, and Spencer’s eyes flick to Ryan before they fix back on Jon. 

“Brent. Brent left the band,” Ryan says eventually. His voice is not as calm as Spencer’s, but the tone is similar, and Jon suddenly doesn’t know anymore where Spencer starts and Ryan ends, where the line is, because it’s blurring, like road markings in fog. 

“Okay,” Jon says. “Alright, yes. Let me just.” He stops. “I have to call Bill. And some other people. Does Pete know yet?” 

 

*

 

Jon flies back to Chicago for a week to explain to his mom that no, he’s not going back to college any time soon, and then explain to William that no, he can’t tour with them. He flies back to Vegas with two suitcases, his acoustic bass, his acoustic guitar and his regular bass. 

They practice in Spencer’s basement until all Jon can hear or see are basslines and keyboard sheets and his head is spinning with sound and rhythm. He finds himself dreaming of the music, and when they start touring a week later they have written segues between the songs and Jon finds himself tune in tune with Brendon, perfectly harmonic as if it’d never been any different. 

 

*

 

It takes some time for Jon to get used to this — to being on stage in front of five thousand fucking people, instead of backstage drinking with the other tech guys and making sure nothing is broken. To the weird intimacy between his new bandmates, the interviews, reading his name – misspelled, John, Joe, Waker — in magazines. 

He gets used to people touching Spencer, watching silently, taking pictures, Pete’s hand on the small of Spencer’s back, Brendon, pressing his nose to Spencer’s neck while Spencer plays Halo. Jon’s fingers itch to touch him but he never does; Spencer’s looks, vaguely sexual, the tilt of his hips, his trailing fingertips are never directed at Jon either. 

 

*

 

A week and three days into their tour, Jon walks in on Ryan and Spencer.

His and Brendon’s and Spencer’s and Ryan’s rooms are adjoining for some reason, hotel messed up or whatever. He and Brendon want to go exploring in the city, but Jon forgets his Sidekick and has to go back for it. 

The door between the rooms is not closed, and on his way back out, Jon hears voices from the other room. When he looks up on his way out he can see Spencer and Ryan quite clearly; Ryan is in shorts and a T-shirt, and Spencer is probably wearing briefs, but Jon can’t tell, and is otherwise naked. Ryan is straddling Spencer, knees on either side of his hips, their faces close together, so close they must be sharing breath. 

Jon pretends to be walking over to the desk by the window where he’ll have a better view, and really, he’s just. Just one look.

Spencer’s pale skin is covered in dark scribbles, swirls on his arms, lines of words stretched across his collarbone, Ryan’s lyrics Jon figures. Ryan is chewing the end of a sharpie, eyes fixed on Spencer’s chest, before he bends down and writes all over Spencer’s shoulder, over the pale freckles Jon knows are there. Ryan speaks after he’s done, unintelligible to Jon, and Spencer shakes his head; Ryan licks his thumb and rubs some of the marks away before replacing them. 

And really, he should leave, but Spencer’s hands are lingering on Ryan’s waist and it’s hard to look away. They’re talking again, whispering, laughing, shifting. Jon swallows, unable to decide if this is something sexual, or if it’s just. Spencer and Ryan. Ryan and Spencer. He’s not sure if he wants to find out, so he grabs his Sidekick from the couch table and leaves, shutting the door to the hallway as quietly as possible. 

 

*

 

Maybe something changes. Not for Spencer, obviously, because Jon is very sure he and Ryan didn’t notice him, but Jon feels that something is different. Maybe he gets adventurous, maybe he starts wanting to test Spencer’s boundaries, see how far he can go, if Spencer will let him get as far as Ryan, all touches and contact. 

 

*

 

“I want that,” Spence says, pulls three packs of marshmallows from the shelf and puts them into the basket Jon is carrying, followed by Red Bull and nacho chips and other snacks. Jon watches him browse through the shelves, eyes fixed on the small of his back where his T-shirt is riding up a little, past his belt, revealing smooth white skin. 

Jon can see the freckles on his neck and shoulders where his T-shirt is not covering them up, and imagines that there are maybe stains from permanent markers on his collarbone or on his shoulder. He follows Spencer through the aisles, carrying their groceries, reading their shopping list out loud occasionally, until they have everything they need. 

“Are we done?” Spence asks. 

Jon nods. “Yeah, I think we got everything.”

At the register, Spence takes the grocery basket from Jon and puts it on the counter, leans against it, back curving. Jon swallows and comes up behind him, leans over him to make sure they really didn’t forget anything, really, presses his chest to Spencer’s back and curls one hand over Spencer’s belly for balance, putting the other on the counter. 

Spencer doesn’t move, just keeps opening and closing his wallet until the clerk is done putting their stuff into a paper bag, and then pays. Jon presses closer for a moment, nearly nosing Spencer’s neck, but the clerk gives him a weird look and Jon steps back, walks ahead outside, hands in his pockets, hoping his pants are loose enough to hide his erection. 

 

*

 

On day fourteen, Ryan buys The O.C. box at a store just outside Orlando. After the show, Jon tries to convince Ryan to please watch something else until Jon goes to bed, but Ryan seems determined. He sits on the floor with Brendon, clutching the remote to his chest, and Jon shrugs and sits on the couch, naked toes touching Spencer’s thigh. And okay, so, maybe he’s hooked fifteen minutes in, which he won’t really admit, but he gets more comfortable, scoots closer to Spencer for a better angle at the TV, sharing body heat. 

“I think Seth is really in love with this Ryan dude,” Spencer comments after half an hour, popping another gummy bear into his mouth. 

“Just ‘cos he listens to Death Cab doesn’t mean he’s _gay_ ,” Ryan says from the floor. 

“But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t be,” Spence replies, and Jon watches his fingers dig into the gummy bear bag again, fishing out only the green ones. 

“Yeah but it also doesn’t,” Ryan starts, but Brendon shushes him, gesturing at the TV. Spencer turns to look at Jon, rolling his eyes, grinning. 

Jon grins back and hesitates for a moment, before casually splaying his fingers out on Spencer’s thigh for leverage while leaning over to snatch a bag of nacho chips from the table, fingers digging into the muscles beneath the soft, worn fabric of Spencer’s jeans. 

He sits back, chewing on a chip, lets his hand slide a little higher as if on accident, and waits for Spencer to move (or not move) away. Spencer’s eyes are fixed on the TV, fingers still digging in his bag of sweets, and Jon waits, one skyscraper, two skyscraper, and then Spencer shifts. Jon feels the muscles in his arm flare, ready to remove his hand in time to make it seem like an accident, thoughtlessness, but Spencer doesn’t scoot away. Spencer just pulls his legs out from under himself, putting his feet on the floor, spreading his thighs a little. 

Jon swallows, considers, and then slides his hand up higher, closer to Spencer’s crotch; he can feel himself getting hard, glad for the bag of chips in his lap. Spencer’s reaction is minimal, and if Jon had not spent the last few weeks intensely watching him, he probably wouldn’t have noticed either. A quick flutter of lashes in the flickering light of the TV, throat working for a moment, a sharp intake of breath. 

Jon waits for a second, gives Spencer another chance to break away, and when he doesn’t, moves his hand up, cupping Spencer’s dick carefully through his jeans. He’s half-hard, shifting into Jon’s touch, while exhaling audibly. Jon watches his eyes waver shut for a moment, rubs again, getting more confident. 

In front of the TV, Ryan cheers for something or someone, and Jon swallows tightly, moves his hand again, forcing himself to watch the screen instead of his fingers curling over Spencer’s cock. He counts seconds again, one skyscraper, two skyscraper, and then the bus suddenly halts. 

Spencer gets up, brushes his hand off, says something about having to talk to Zack and walks out without so much as glancing at Jon, like it’s _he_ who nearly gave Jon a handjob, like he’s not hard in his stupid girl jeans. 

 

*

 

Jon focuses. He focuses on the bass and on the music and on making Ryan smile when he’s trying to write lyrics and being all stern and too serious. He focuses on not letting Brendon get out of hand with the alcohol because it makes Ryan unhappy. 

He gives silly answers during interviews to make Spencer smile, and backs Brendon when Ryan doesn’t want to watch Disney movies. He makes coffee in the morning and wakes Spencer and does not think of what could have happened.

 

*

 

Spencer must have seen him coming. Or at least heard him, because Jon’s steps echo loudly, _staccatostaccato_ , across the parking lot behind the venue in Sayreville. It’s a cool evening for July, with water pooling in the holes in the pavement, and the moon is pale and blue, and Jon really wants to take a picture from that one window in the venue but he left his camera in the bus. 

He sees them – Spencer and Chase, their guitar tech — when he rounds the corner to where their bus is parked, and feels his steps falter for a moment, before he has to pick them up again per will because he does not really want to stay and watch (again). 

Spencer is up against the bus, hands splayed out against the black paint, his face is turned away, hair in his eyes, and the tech guy’s hands are on his waist, sliding up, higher, pushing Spencer’s pale pink T-shirt away to give way to pale, pale skin. Jon feels his fingers itch, feels wrong. 

His breath catches in his throat, and takes another loud step and then Spencer looks up, looks straight at him over the tech guy’s shoulder, lips parted, cheeks flushed. Jon nearly wishes he had his camera so he could take a picture, a close up of the soft curve of Spencer’s lips, parted, pink, and the shadow of his lashes on his cheek.

Jon meets Spencer’s eyes for a second or two, tries to read the look in them, until Spencer bites his lip and lets his eyes fall shut, shivering visibly, fingers curling, as the tech buries his nose against his neck. 

Jon leaves; he wants to run, maybe, but his legs feel like lead. He wrenches the door to the bus open, heart pounding, wondering what it is that Spencer _wants_ , and calls Tom. 

 

*

 

Spencer doesn’t talk to him that night. Jon sees him once, curled up with Ryan in the big armchair in the lounge, their legs intertwined. Spencer is talking quietly, nose against Ryan’s neck, and Ryan is listening, face cold and stern. 

The next day, they have a new guitar tech; Jon remembers hands on Spencer’s skin and shivers. 

 

*

 

“Which do you want?” Jon asks backstage in Boston, holding out a bottle of water and a can of coke. 

Spencer tilts his head. “I’m. Having iced tea,” he says, but to Jon it sounds like something entirely different. 

 

*

 

In Columbus, Jon finds Spencer sitting on the roof of the bus after the concert. It’s thirty minutes before departure to Chicago, Jon just took some polaroids in the dressing room, for his scrapbook, and is putting in a new pack of film on the way back to the bus. 

It’s this weird moment after dusk, where the clouds seem illuminated from within, right after the sun has set, and Spencer’s skin is glowing against the darkening night sky. Jon clicks the camera shut and takes a shot, waits for the picture to develop. Spencer turns, chin resting on his knees and looks at him, hair in his eyes, a soft smile on his face. 

Jon hesitantly raises his hand and waves at him, before putting the string of the camera around his neck and climbing onto the bus. He struggles for a moment, until Spencer helps him up, pulling at his arm. He flops onto his back for a second, breathing hard, the night air cold against his bare arms. 

He stares at Spencer’s back for a moment, before sitting back up, squinting into the direction Spencer’s staring. “What’re you looking at?” he asks eventually, unable to make out what caught Spencer’s interest.

“Nothing,” Spencer replies, tilts his head. “Or everything. I don’t know. Stuff.” 

Jon looks at him for a moment and then takes another picture — Spencer’s profile — and Spencer reaches over and snatches it from his fingers before it’s even developed. He shakes it and waits, before pulling a face and letting it flutter down the side of the bus. 

“Dude,” Jon starts, reaching for the picture, but not quick enough, only getting hold of Spencer’s hand. 

“Sorry,” Spencer says, and Jon waits for him to pull his hand away. His fingers are cold and there’s calluses on his forefinger and thumb. Jon pulls his hand closer, spreads his fingers apart and drags his thumbs over the palm of Spencer’s hand. He hears Spencer sigh a little and looks up, finds Spencer watching him, eyes soft. 

“Your hands are all cold,” Jon says and reaches for Spencer’s left, curling his fingers around both of his hands as if his attempt to warm will provide a credible excuse. But Spencer just nods and then leans closer, dropping his forehead on Jon’s shoulder, and Jon swallows feels his heart stop. Spencer says something, and it sounds like _I’m scared_ , but Jon can’t be sure over the rush of blood in his ears. 

 

*

 

It’s not a party, Pete said on the phone, but if Pete says that something is _not_ going to be a party it’s usually just to convince you to come because he knows you know how Pete parties work. But of course they go – Jon hasn’t seen anyone in the Chicago scene in _ages_ , and if Pete gives a not-party everyone will be there. 

He gets drunk and hangs with Nick for a while, meets this guy called Gabe, who tells him stories Jon would rather not have heard. The venue is small and there’s a lot of stumbling-over-people-you-didn’t-mean-to-watch, and when Jon tries to find his way to the bathroom, there’s Spencer sitting on the armrest of a settee, and Pete sprawled out on said, thighs spread to make space for Spencer’s leg, casually draped between them, his hand splayed out on the small of Spencer’s back. Spencer is gesturing and Pete is listening calmly, and Jon can tell from Spencer’s face that this is about business. 

Jon runs into the edge of a table, curses, pulls a face, avoids running into a nameless girl, and when he looks back at Spencer and Pete, Spencer’s T-shirt is pushed up a little where Pete is rubbing idle circles. Jon sees Spencer’s throat work as he listens, sees his lashes flutter, a nearly unnoticeable tremor at the corner of his mouth for a moment. Jon hesitates for a second, three, and just then as he decides to walk on, Spencer looks up and looks at him, and it’s the same look he gave Jon in Sayreville. 

Pete sits up a little, presses his nose against the side of Spencer’s head, talking; Spencer’s eyes widen for a second, and maybe Jon understands now. Maybe he really is an idiot. 

He fumbles for his phone on the way to the exit and scrolls through his address book until he finds Spencer and hits ‘dial’. He imagines he can hear Spencer’s Sidekick ringing over the music and the voices, and waits, breathless, leaning against the threshold to the adjoining room. 

Spencer finds him three minutes later, phone to his ear, as if he’s talking, only pocketing it as he spots Jon. Pulls at Jon’s wrist until they’re on the other side, less seen and bumps their shoulders together. 

“Thank you,” he says, and it takes all of Jon’s willpower to not just lean down and cradle Spencer’s face in his hands and kiss him. 

 

*

 

Jon doesn’t ask; it’s not that he doesn’t want to ask, he does, but by now he knows Spencer well enough and knows that he won’t give away any of his secrets if Jon asks for them. He does however, curl against Jon’s side when they watch the fifth disc of the OC box. He’s kind of warm and small, and Jon puts an arm around his waist, pretends it’s so they won’t get uncomfortable. 

Later – much later – Jon watches Spencer brush his teeth, waiting for his turn in the tiny bus bathroom. In the mirror, Spencer returns his look, but does not meet his eyes when he turns and makes room for Jon. He brushes past Jon, and Jon feels his heart sting for a moment, before he reaches out quickly, curling his arm around Spencer’s waist and pulls him close. There is a short moment of resistance until Spencer lets him, fingers digging into Jon’s shoulders. 

Jon catches his breath, presses his mouth to Spencer’s ear. He hears Spencer swallow, feels him exhale, shivering. 

“Sleep tight,” Jon says and hears his own voice break. He pulls away, and Spencer walks past him, turning once to look at Jon over his shoulder.

 

*

 

Jon kind of hates interviews; he hates the questions about Brent and about how they’re all getting along, and he hates the stupid reporters who know shit about the band, and who ask him how big his creative influence on the album was. He gets high with Brendon before the interviews, mostly, or else the urge to punch people would be too overwhelming; he watches Spencer answer questions, watches him help Ryan avoid replying to anything concerning his family. 

Jon is not high right now because he’s out of weed, but at least Spencer is sitting next to him, their thighs pressed together on the little couch. The reporter is asking questions again - well of course she is, but it’s the bad kind of questions, the kind that make Ryan wince. 

Spencer cleverly talks around the questions, legs crossed, flirting with the reporter until she’s distracted from Ryan and starts questioning Brendon about his family. Jon swallows tightly, watches the curve of Spencer’s leg, and then reaches over and pulls at his hand, pulls at his fingers, wanting to touch. It’s just a radio interview, he tells himself, nobody will see. 

Spencer glances up and looks at him, smiles a little; Jon feels like he should say something, but then Spencer is pulling away again fumbling with a sharpie from his pocket. He takes Jon’s hand, eyes flicking up at the reporter, before pushing his thumb under Jon’s folded fingers until Jon opens his hand. 

He writes on Jon’s hand, carefully drawing letters, _it’s like a business deal_ , as if that could make Jon’s heart sting less, and maybe it does when Spencer bumps his shoulder against Jon’s. 

 

*

 

Jon kisses Spencer that night, in front of the TV, while Brendon and Ryan are in the shop of the truck stop. 

“Hey,” Spencer says, questioning, surprised, soft. He rests his hand on Jon’s chest, and Jon presses his lips against Spencer’s again before pulling back and resting their foreheads together. 

“I’m not asking for anything,” Jon says then, curling his fingers around Spencer neck, playing with the hair at his nape. 

“Okay,” Spencer says and puts his arms around Jon’s neck; Jon kisses him again, knowing that’s as much of a concession as he’ll get. 

 

*

 

Jon didn’t think Spencer would beg, but he does when Jon flicks his tongue over the tip of his cock before pulling off and moving further down, licking Spencer open slowly, fingers teasing. He has freckles at the back of his thighs, too, pale, nearly invisible, and Jon digs the fingers of his free hand into the skin there, pushing Spencer’s leg up high, until it hits the wall of the bunk. 

Spencer is breathing hard, mewling, pushing up against Jon’s mouth, and Jon pushes his tongue deeper, and Spencer inhales sharply and says his name , _Jon, Jon, Jonnn_ and then _Please, oh god, please_ ; Jon grins wetly. 

He pulls back a little, bites at the insides of Spencer’s thigh, sucking until the skin blossoms red in the pale light of the bunk bulb, eases his teeth over the spot, kisses it, rubbing his thumb over Spencer’s opening. 

“Please,” Spencer says again, and Jon feels his cock twitch. “Please, Jon.” 

Jon drags his teeth down Spencer’s thigh again, licks lower and inside again, pushing a finger in. Spencer arches off the mattress, choking on his own voice, fingers finding Jon’s hair finally, tugging, pulling. Jon pushes his finger in harder, adds another after a second, waits for Spencer to find the rhythm. 

Spencer makes another noise, moving against him, pushing so Jon has to scoot back a little to maintain the angle, and then comes, Jon’s name falling from his lips again. Jon pulls back, nips at Spencer’s thigh again, before crawling up, and pressing a kiss to Spencer’s neck. 

Spencer moans a little, hands skittering down Jon’s back to his ass, and to the front, fingers curling around Jon’s cock beneath his sweatpants, stroking. 

“Let me,” he pants against Jon’s cheek. He dips his fingers inside Jon’s pants, fingers curling around the base of Jon’s cock, carefully, tentatively, and Jon closes his eyes, bites his lip, shivering, moaning. Spencer strokes him once, twice, thumbing the tip, breathing hotly. 

“Can I —?” Spencer pulls back and pushes at Jon’s chest, makes him sit back on his heels. “I wanna —“ He stops again, visibly swallows, looks at Jon. 

“Fuck,” Jon says, and shifts until he’s more comfortable. Spencer settles between Jon’s thighs, pulls his pants down and lets his cock spring free, curls both hands around it. 

Jon hisses, bites his lip. “Come on,” he grits out, involuntarily, and Spencer dives down, fingers wrapping around the base of Jon’s cock, tight. He licks the tip experimentally and Jon reaches down and threads his fingers through his hair, forcing himself to stay still. 

Spence pulls off a second later, but before Jon can complain about the loss, he’s saying, “You can – you know. You don’t have to be careful.” 

“God,” Jon says and then shuts up when Spencer sucks his cock between his lips again, licking, moving down as far as possible. Jon can tell it’s probably his first time, from the fumbling fingers and the occasional scrape of teeth; Jon reaches down and rubs his thumb over Spencer’s lower lip, all wet and slick, before burying his fingers in his hair again, thrusting up lightly. 

Spencer makes a tiny noise around his cock, humming, and Jon groans and moves up harder, watches Spencer’s lips stretch over his cock, his eyes fluttering shut. He curses again, and speeds up a little, then grabs Spencer’s hair, pulls him off a little and curls his free hand around the base of his cock, stroking once, twice. Spencer flicks his tongue over the tip again, probing, and Jon comes, watches Spencer try to swallow. 

Spencer pulls off, lips red and bruised, stained, and wipes his chin, cheeks flushed. “Sorry, I—“ he starts but Jon shakes his head and pushes him down, kisses the side of his mouth. 

“Spence,” he breathes against Spencer’s skin, “this is just for me, okay? Don’t share this with anyone else.” It’s ridiculous he knows, this request, but Spencer doesn’t say no, just hugs Jon closer.

 

*

 

Jon can hear the crowd cheering, backstage in Toronto. It’s five minutes to their set and In the tiny bathroom, Brendon is doing vocal warm ups, voice strong, and Ryan is sitting on the couch, knees pressed together, gnawing on his lip. Spencer is hastily putting on his stage clothes, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt before smudging his eyeliner. Jon takes a Polaroid, trying to figure out why he feels so different, why this all feels so unfamiliar. 

He wanders around a chair, closer to Spencer, anxious, waiting. 

“Hey,” Spence says and fluffs his hair, squinting at himself in the mirror behind Jon. Jon can see his gaze flicking, to Ryan possibly, and then he’s stepping closer, hands sliding over Jon’s hips, locking at his back for a moment before vanishing again. 

“Ready?” Jon asks. 

“Yeah,” Spencer replies. “I think so.”

***


End file.
